When the Festal Board, as the papers say,
Groans ‘neath the weight of a lot to eat,
At breakfast, Frūhstūck or déjeuner,
(As a bard tri-lingual I’m rather neat)
At breakfast, then, if I may repeat,
This is what gets me into a huff,
This is a query I cannot beat:
Why don’t they ever have spoons enough?

I’ve broken my fast with the grave and gay,
With hoi polloi* and with the élite;
I’ve been all over the U.S.A.
From Dorchester Crossing to Kearney
Street.
But aye when I sit in the morning seat
Comes to my notice the self-same bluff,
Plenty of food, but in this they cheat:
Why don’t they ever have spoons enough?

Take it at breakfast, only to-day:
This was the layout, fresh and sweet:
Canteloupe, sweet as the new-mown hay;**
Cereal — one of the brands*** of wheat;
Soft-boiled eggs (we’ve cut out the meat);
Coffee (a claro-manila-buff);
Napery, china, and glasses complete—
Why don’t they ever have spoons enough?

L’ENVOI
Autocratesses, forgive my heat,
But isn’t it time to change that stuff?
Small is the benison I entreat—
Why don’t they ever have spoons enough?

* The Common Masses — from the Greek οἱ πολλοί is ‘the many’. The term was adopted into English by the American writer James Fenimore Cooper. He did use ‘hoi polloi’ in his Gleanings from Europe in 1837.** And about as edible.*** To Advertisers: This Space Is For Sale.